


Johnny Boy

by supernaturalfragalistic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry John, Car Impala, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Protective Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturalfragalistic/pseuds/supernaturalfragalistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean:13<br/>Sam:8<br/> John leaves Sam and Dean alone in a motel when he goes on a hunt. When he comes back, he expects his boys to run and tackle him like they usually do. That's not what happens</p>
            </blockquote>





	Johnny Boy

**Author's Note:**

> My second fic. I thought I would add some John in there.

"Deeaaann," Sam's plaintive voice called from their shared motel bedroom. Dean was busy in the kitchen making breakfast for the two of them. 

"What's up, Sammy? Come out here, I'm busy," Dean called over his shoulder.

"Deeeeeeeeaaaaaaaannnn!" Sam's louder, whinier shout was followed by a series of small coughs. After hearing this, Dean ran from the eggs he had been scrambling, to Sam. 

"What's wrong, Sammy? You okay?" Dean's voice was filled to the brim with worry about his little brother.

"I don't feel good, Dean." Sam looked up with watery eyes, the colour of which was closer to Dean's due to his illness. He sniffled wetly and sneezed into the blankets that were making a cocoon out of themselves.

"How don't you feel good, Sammy?" His face was pleading and his voice was more gentle than he'd ever admit it being. "Does your throat hurt? Are you cold?"

Sam nodded twice. Dean sat at that edge of the bed. 

"How about your nose? Does it feel itchy? Runny?"

Sam shook his head. "Not itchy," He sneezed quietly and sniffed. "just runny."

Dean put his hand softly on his little brother's stomach. "Does your tummy hurt?"

Sam nodded. "It feels funny, Dean," he admitted.

Reaching forward, pushing his brother's damp hair away from his sticky forehead, Dean told Sam, "I think you have a fever, Sammy. Does your head hurt?"

"Yeah, a little. It feels fuzzy." Sam's eyes were threatening to close over his puppy-dog eyes. 

Dean gently patted Sam's shoulder. "Okay," he said, "tell you what. I'm gonna get you a bucket, in case your stomach gets worse, and some medicine for your headache. Okay? Then I'll lay with you until you fall asleep. How does that sound?"

Sam nodded eagerly. Dean got up from the edge of poor little Sammy's bed and headed to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, he grabbed a bucket from under the sink, and cold medicine for Sammy's headache from above the vanity. To add on, Dean got a washcloth, wet it, and wrung it out. He was thinking of putting it on Sammy's forehead to lessen his fever, as his mother used to do when he was sick. 

Thinking of her made Dean stop. He stopped and thought of the days before the yellow-eyed demon, days even before Sammy. Mary Winchester would wake Dean up in the morning and make him breakfast. She'd sit with him and cut up his food, back when he couldn't. She'd then sit, watching him eat, and sing. Sometimes, it was whatever was on the radio the previous day. When it was raining, or Dean was upset, she'd sing "Hey Jude."

Mary'd sing "Hey Jude" when he fell asleep. To Sammy, too, when he was born. She used to sing it if they were wick, upset, sad, angry, or if they just wanted to know she was there. 

After singing, however, she'd say, "Hey, everything's alright. You know why?"

Usually they'd shake their heads, but sometimes, when Dean felt like being a "big boy," he'd join her in saying: "Because angels are watching over you."

Coming out of the flashback, Dean wiped his teary eyes. He walked purposefully back to Sammy, who had waited for his big brother to get back before even thinking about falling asleep.

"I've got the stuff," Dean declared. "How ya feelin' little bro?"

Sam yawned. "Tired."

Dean's eyebrows lowered with empathy. He came by the bed and put the bucket down. He leaned over Sammy and put the damp cloth across his sweaty forehead. As he got on the bed, he tried his hardest not to move, knowing how fragile Sam's stomach was when he was sick. Dean put his arm around his baby brother. 

"I know, Sammy, but I'm here now, right? Doesn't that cloth feel good?"

Sam nodded slightly. "Yeah, but it doesn't help my tummy."

Dean reached down and got the medication. "I brought some medicine for your head, but it says it can help your tummy, too. it won't taste great, but you'll feel better soon," he said. 

"Okay," Sam agreed, ending that word with a coupe wet coughs and a singular sneeze. Dean opened the bottle and filled the cap with the syrup. Then he reached over to Sam. 

"I can do it, Dean," Sam said proudly. Dean pushed his skinny outstretched arm down gently. 

"I won't let you do it now, Sammy," Dean stated. "Let me do it. Put that arm back down under the blankets. We don't want you to get worse, do we?"

Sam shook his head. Dean put his brother's head back just enough to get the medicine out of he cap and into his mouth. Sam coughed and Dean gave him water. 

"Easy there, Sammy. Drink this slowly," Dean commanded. Sam did as he was told, but it didn't seem to help much. He turned to the side quickly and vomited all over the floor on the opposite side of him.

"Oh gosh, Dean. I'm sorry," Sam whined, tears starting to flow over his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I couldn't-"

"Sammy, don't worry about it," Dean soothed, getting off the bed and grabbing some cleaning supplies. "It was my fault anyway." He put the bucket next to Sam and cleaned and vacuumed the vomit spot. Getting back into the room, Dean put one hand around Sammy's shoulders and the other on his blanketed stomach. 

"Dean?" Sam began weakly. His eyes were losing the fight against the Sandman. "What're you doin'?"

"Shh, Sammy," Dean soothed again. "This'll help your tummy. Now get to sleep." He put his brother's little eight year old head on his broad 13 year old chest and began rubbing his stomach in slow, rhythmic circles. As Sam's head lolled, his breathing steady and deep, Dean slowed his rhythm slightly. As his rhythm continued to slow, he turned off the bedside table lamp and surrendered to his own sleep.

* * *

"Dean! Sam! Why are these eggs out?! They're luring flies!" John Winchester's voice thundered through the small motel room as he walked in the door from his last hunt. The yell jerks Dean awake automatically, whit it takes Sam a moment to will his eyes open. 

"Shh, Sammy," Dean whispered. "It's just Dad. I'll deal with him." He got off the bed softly and closed the bedroom door on the way to the kitchen and living area. 

"There you are! Did you forget how to make food or somethin'? Those eggs were just left here! Where's Sam?" John bellows. 

Dean puts his hands up and down slowly, willing his father to quiet down. "Dad, shh. Sammy's sick."

"He's sick? How sick?" John asks, voice void of concern. He barreled through Dean and went to slam open the bedroom door. 

"No!" Dean yelled. He threw himself in his father's path. John stopped dead. 

"Dean, what's your problem?" John demanded, trying to find a way around his young son. 

"Sammy's real sick, Dad," said Dean. "He's got a ever and he puked a bunch." The pleading tone alone would have usually turned John around on the subject, but not today. 

"Dean, stop. I have to see if he's fakin-"

"Dad, no-"

"At ease!" John interrupted angrily. 

"Y-yes....Sir," Dean said, sadness and conflicted loyalties clear in his voice as he stepped aside. 

John busted through the door and Sam was sitting up, barely keeping from falling back down on the pillows. His face was pale as a sheet, but it got a bit green as John began screaming. 

"Sam! Get your ass up! We've got to get to New Orleans by Friday!" John hollered. Sammy turned green as a frog. Dean rushed over to him, sat him up taller, and put a bucket beneath him as Sam vomited what little there was left in his stomach. 

Dean's eyes pleaded with his father's, but his voice was steady. "We'll meet you at the Impala, Dad. Don't worry about it." The  _don't worry about it_ was judgmental and bitter. John began to argue but thought better of it. There was no arguing about Sam with Dean. 

Dean's intense glare at John dissipated as soon as his father left the room. "You alright there, Sammy?" Dean asked softly while rubbing his brother's back. 

"Mmhm," Sam replied, but the green and continuation of the vomiting assured Dean of otherwise. Dean sighed. 

"Sam, when your tummy calms down, take a nap. I bought us an extra hour or two, and if you'll let me, I'll carry you to the car and sit with you," Dean suggested. Sam, though he was now dry heaving, nodded when there was a break. 

Dean got up and started slowly packing their clothes and toiletries into duffle bags. Dean got their backpacks for school as well. Before going to the car to put their stuff away on the trunk, he looked over his shoulder to make sure Sam was sleeping. 

Without  looking at him, Dean threw his and Sammy's bags in the car, closed the door, and turned to walk back to the motel room. 

"Dean," John said roughly, "I'm sorry about the way I acted. I'm just-" He stopped there, rubbing his face as if he had a headache. Dean put his hand up, silencing him. 

"It's okay, Dad. I'll just get Sam and we can go." Dean nodded, final, and returned to the motel room. 

Clean bucket in one hand, Dean picked up the snoring Sam from the bed. He situated his brother so that Sam's head was against his chest and he was laying across both Dean's arms. Dean put a blanket on his brother, shielding him from the cold, and went outside. 

John was already in the 67 Chevrolet Impala, waiting for them. Using sheer muscle, Dean opened the door, and ducked inside the backseat with his ill brother and clean bucket still in hand. 

"We ready to go?" John asked in a whisper, obviously still trying to make up for his behavior earlier. Dean set Sammy up with his head in Dean's lap, on his side, facing the lean bucket on the floor. He then pulled the blanket up to his little brother's nose, trying to keep every inch of him as warm as possible, seeing as his fever had yet to break. 

"All good," Dean replied.

They drove off onto a busy highway, making their way to New Orleans,Louisiana. With his head facing down at Sam, Dean fell into a light sleep, ready to wake up if anything happened to his Sammy. 

 


End file.
